“And him a canny Scotchman with a new child a year. Yes, my certie,” offered Nanny, with an acrid grimness. Mrs. Muir’s hands clasped strongly as they lay on the table before her.
“That doesn’t come within my bailiewick,” she said in her quiet voice. “Her life is her own and not mine. Words are the wind that blows.” She stopped just a moment and began again. “We must leave for Scotland by the earliest train.”
“What’ll he do?” the words escaped from the woman as if involuntarily. She even drew a quick breath. “He’s a strong feeling bairn—strong!”
“He’ll be stronger when he is a young man, Nanny!” desperately. “That is why I must act now. There is no half way. I don’t want to be hard. Oh, am I hard—am I hard?” she cried out low as if she were pleading.
“No, ma’am. You are not. He’s your own flesh and blood.” Nanny had never before seen her mistress as she saw her in the next curious almost exaggerated moment.
Her hand flew to her side.
“He’s my heart and my soul—” she said, “—he is the very entrails of me! And it will hurt him so and I cannot explain to him because he is too young to understand. He is only a little boy who must go where he is taken. And he cannot help himself. It’s—unfair!”
Nanny was prone to become more Scotch as she became moved. But she still managed to look grim.
“He canna help himsel,” she said, “an waur still, you canna.”
There was a moment of stillness and then she said: